


Foolish Eyes, Sweet Price

by Ribbonshalos



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Deputy!McCree, Drinking, F/M, First Meeting, Romance, Sheriff!Reyes, Sombra being Sombra, Suggestive, Western AU, and McCree's secret name, but nothing more, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonshalos/pseuds/Ribbonshalos
Summary: Nothing much happens in Deadlock Gorge. On boring nights after working through the long hot day, McCree goes to the bar. He knows everyone in there, except for who the stranger is sitting in the dark corner.





	Foolish Eyes, Sweet Price

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been really inspired to do an old fashion western au with this pairing, and it fits them so well. I went a little far with the world building, but what I have in mind for this story is way bigger than this. I’ll probably return to this fic later. Probably. Maybe. There’s also some good spice in here, so enjoy!

In the United States, the west is still unknown territory. An expansion outwards, towards the west and into California promises gold and riches. Most folks gather their families into wagons and head off to the coastline, but a few settle down among the desert and prairie lands.

McCree is one of the few to stay where his blood runs, in the heat of the southwest. Deadlock Gorge ain’t much, but it’s home.

The town tucked away along an unnamed territory is red. Red dirt. Red canyons. A red sun beating down red heat until a man goes mad. The train on the northern side rattles down iron tracks and stops through here, delivery supplies and whatever news comes from Washington. It’s nothing but something to talk about over a drink. Politics are far from this place. No man in a suit is familiar with the veins and rivers of Deadlock Gorge.

The law out here is Deputy Jesse McCree and Sheriff Gabriel Reyes. On the occasions the Shimada brothers return from their merchant trips across the land and overseas, they offer their foreign weapons as needed. There’s not a lot of need.

Most folks whose roots are planted deep come from farming or mining families. There’s copper in the ground. The glitter isn’t that of gold, but it’s close enough out here. Hard working men break their backs to take the bronze material and trade it, making a living and caring for their wives and children. Farmers and ranchers take land in the desert, finding life in an otherwise dried, dead place. Cotton, citrus and cattle thrive where few others do. They’re good, honest people.

He and Reyes keep the peace and venture where there is a need. Bandits and cattle rustlers will sweep through the farmlands before McCree and Reyes set watch in the dead of night. They don’t get away with stealing a second time. The few times an organized group attempted to blow the train off the tracks, which was hauling copper, they were met with shotgun shells and bullets from McCree’s peacekeeper.

It’s mostly slow work, but jumps and bites him on the leg when he least expects it. That’s how life works out here. The days are long, hot and boring. Midnight brings opportunity, and reason to stay awake. He’s spent a few or so nights in the sheriff’s office, sitting and smoking, waiting to catch a fool hardheaded enough to even step towards the national bank. It’s one of the few important buildings lining what makes a main street in Deadlock Gorge.

A honky tonk bar keeps most men entertained on nights the days are hard. The boys know to not get too rowdy, for the sheriff office is right across the way. They’re also kind enough to consider Dr. Angela Ziegler’s building a stone’s throw away. She lives on the second level. However, most just call her Mercy, a name well earned.

A small clinic takes up the first floor, offering medicine and surgical aid to the folks out here. She’s all they got in regards to injuries, childbirth, and illnesses. She’s a firm woman who immigrated from Switzerland, received her education in surgery, and traveled through the lower half of the U.S. to take up residence here. He wasn’t too sure why someone as accomplished as she would stick herself in the middle of nowhere. Apparently, helping the most in need is her soul’s ambition. He ain’t going to question that kind of good nature.

McCree was a bit new to the deputy job when the Shimada Brothers first stepped off the train in Deadlock Gorge. Hanzo and Genji. Two Japanese men who dress finely and speak clear English. They offered plenty of goods and much needed materials to the trading post in town. From the little he gathered of them initially, they came from a world of business and money. The brothers persuaded a few folks to invest in some other goods, took off for what Reyes and McCree feared to be for eternity, but returned with the promised merchandised—and more—in hand.

The younger brother, Genji, took a liking to Mercy, although McCree thought his eyes sparkled a little too much on pretty woman in town. However it came to be, they started seeing each other regularly. McCree didn’t figure it would last long with how often he’s leaving Mercy behind to go to work, but, he wasn’t mad about being surprised. When Genji’s away, the first thing Mercy does in the morning is send a letter to the post office, and wait to receive one. On the days the brothers are meant to return, she’s sitting on the station platform, watching the desert for a hint of the iron horse.

McCree didn’t like the looks of the brothers at first. He even offered to spook the younger brother off if he was bothering Mercy too much, but she shook her head. He didn’t see until much later how Genji rushes off the train to pick Mercy up in his arms and twirl her around like they’re newly weds.

They’re good men. Very different from the type that work around here, but good.

Loving is easy to see out here. It’s in the families that work and take care of others out here. It’s in the kids who get married as soon as they’re of age because they can’t stand being apart another day. It’s in mothers and fathers with children. It’s in the bishop at the small church at the end of town, reminding everyone to help those who are in need.

Every single soul out here has someone. That’s how people survive under a brutal sun and the labors the earth brings. McCree’s far from deserving to settle down with a woman. There’s dirt and blood smeared across his calloused hands. He’s acted on dark deeds that’s left his soul stained, made worthless. He can’t expect anyone to fall for that.

All he’s got is his mentor, Reyes. The only person he trusts to watch his back. Reyes ain’t even married. Not that he can blame any potential suitors. He’s too rigorous and focus.

McCree watches from the shade of the sheriff’s office. He sees the union of people, and how tired men return to their wives as if they never known hardship. It’s something else.

He chews on his cigarette until it’s gone, and slips those kind of thoughts away. It’s better to work than to dwell on being called someone’s.

It’s been quiet for a good half of June. The sun’s been hotter as all get out. Reyes is irritated, by the heat and McCree. He ain’t even done anything to warrant this—and he usually does.

Early that day they rode their horses out to make a round through the eastern farmlands. Nothing but farmers and teenager farmhands eager to finish and get to the river to cool off. He and the sheriff stopped a few times and chatted about the weather and how the crops are doing this season. Everyone knows everyone. It’s the same old, just a different day.

“Get out of here and get some sleep,” Reyes barks.

The sun has long since set. McCree’s boots thunk across the sheriff’s office porch as Reyes shuts it, more forcefully than needed. The man’s in a thinking mood, and when he gets like that, it’s best to leave him be.

A cricket chirps gently as the cooler air sets in. It’s a kindness after the long day. A black sky dotted with holes of stars makes the heavens tonight. Fixing the brim of his hat, McCree’s in no mood to go to the little house a ways out of the town and fall asleep just yet. A restless soul possess him tonight.

Freeing his horse from the hitching rail, McCree leads the pinto horse across the red dirt. He pats her neck a few times, murmuring nothing. She’s calm as the breeze that rolls through. Clomping hooves and boots make their way to the bar. Retying her to the rail at the side of the building, McCree fixes his serape and steps through the wooden, saloon doors that swing with his entrance.

A Sunday night usually means nicer folk are at home, respecting the holy day. McCree’s preferred times to come and drink for a while. It’s a little better than sitting in his dark house emptying a glass bottle. Rougher, less concern men lurk in the shadows of the chandelier candlelight. One game of poker runs off to the side.

At the bar, one fellow sits at the far end, in the shadows where the light doesn’t quite reach. McCree makes his way to the other side. He’s got thoughts in his head too, even after working all day.

“Bourbon?” the bartender asks.

“Thank ya kindly,” McCree says.

The man behind the bar already knows how McCree likes it. He’s older, slim and tall, but fitted with a clean shirt and vest. A thick white mustache covers his face. A man valued above most in the town. He’s made it better with the bar since he first came into Deadlock Gorge.

The glass is set before McCree. The bartender doesn’t linger, sensing that McCree’s not here for polite conversation. He keeps busy with going into the back and returning to sweep the floor. The poker game continues with muttered curses and an occasional cackle as coins slide across the tabletop.

Setting an arm on the bar, McCree swirls the amber liquid over ice. It gleams like something between copper and gold, tempting. His first taste burns. Clearing his throat, he lowers his glass as he steals a glance to the person sitting at the opposite end of the bar.

They’re not hunched in intoxication. In fact, they lean back an elbow onto the bar, crossing their legs, feminine like. They hold up their drink for inspection. Their poison is clear, maybe tequila? Most of the alcohol is amber here, ranging from scotch to old fashion whiskey. He didn’t even know the bartender kept more exotic drinks on hand.

Underneath the brim of his hat, McCree lingers on their frame. Small, real short, but with curves that are soft. He squints slightly as he takes another drink, wondering if a woman sits in the corner. Hookers will occasional come through, but they never stay for long as the older, lonely men will pick them up quickly before disappearing back onto the train. Those showy girls don’t like small places like this.

Out of the shadows, a pair of calculating eyes, colored the most piercing purple-blue, sweep into his gaze. He immediately thinks of a fox prowling through the night. There’s a cunning he can taste from the mere contact, and it cools the burn from the bourbon in his belly.

Those eyes are stranger’s.

The eyes tilt, jerking their chin in invitation.

He can’t help but feel he’s answering the devil’s call, but McCree takes his glass and saunters down the bar. The candlelight flickers far from this place. He settles onto a stool away from them, but spies through the shadows.

The woman wears a dark purple tunic that falls to her knees, a slit cut into one side. The tunic’s neckline lifts up sharply, hiding her neck. Layered underneath, black pants and short sleeves conceal her olive skin. She doesn’t look to him just yet. In the quiet of the night, aside from a few mutters of money lost, and the gentle sweeping of a broom, all’s still.

The clear drink touches her lips, and she drinks without pause. Nothing sours her expression, for the taste is a familiar friend. The longer McCree sits, the more he’s sure foxglove falls off of her hair. The rich brown locks are voluminous, and flip up at the ends on one side of her shoulder. Mexican, if he were to guess. It’s not uncommon to have people wander up here as they journey to the west coast.

He knows trouble when he sees it, but this is someone else. Someone capable, and cunning. Why she asks him to come and sit beside her is beyond his means of understanding.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he dips his head, disappearing underneath his hat for a moment. “Did you arrive into town tonight? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before.”

The woman smiles. Her lips roguishly curl upwards in a manner that strikes McCree’s heart with a hidden blade.

Oh, heaven help him. He’s walking into the land where the light doesn’t shine, and she leads him further into it. Blind, unaware, he awaits her reveal.

“No one ever does,” she says. Her Spanish accent slips around her words like black cords, enticing them.

She turns her cheek. Her eyes slide down his person like judging the speed of a horse by it standing alone. Calm under the inspection, he takes her sweeping gaze until it returns to his face. A silent approval rings through her eyes. Somehow, he satisfies whatever she has in mind.

“You don’t stay long in any one place?” he drawls.

She takes another sip of her drink. Slowly, she uncrosses her legs to face the bar as he does. Her eyes study the room one last time before landing upon him.

“There’s only so much to be done in sleepy towns.”

McCree presses his lips together in thought, before knocking back the rest of his drink. Nothing left. That’s a problem.

“Bartender,” he calls, keeping his gaze on the woman stranger, “I need another round for me and my friend.”

He glances down to her glass. With a cheeky smile, she drains the rest and clicks the glass to the bar.

“What’s your poison?” he asks.

“Mezcal.”

McCree is quick enough to hide the internal impression of her drink of choice. As strong as she’s becoming in her mystery. He considers himself to be able to handle his liquor, but he ain’t ever test his limit in the public eye. How does she touch the stuff and remain looking over him as if finding her prey bleeding in the dirt?

The bartender is quick. A few other souls stumble out to their horses in the yellow candlelight. When the bartender grabs a pure white bottle and fills the woman’s glass, McCree pushes out his glass, too. Wordlessly, mezcal tumbles over itself. An arching brow lifts on her face as she takes her drink. Tasting it, the woman watches with waiting eyes. He lifts it to his lips.

It almost reminiscences of tequila, but not close enough. It bites like a rapid animal, all over his tongue and down his throat. It reminds him of cigarettes. A silver smoke spills all over his mouth but sweeter, richer. He swallows, and breathes out.

He gets the feeling that’s what she’d taste if he dared drink from her fountain. Like sugar, but dangerous, and glinting in the smallest ray of light.

Her expression smooths out but he can feel the humor in her purple-blue gaze. The drink on her lips does nothing to stop her from swallowing, and using a hand to flip her hair back.

“A man buys me a drink but doesn’t tell me his name. That’s not a gentleman,” she says, saucy in tone.

He smiles, and lifts his head in a more proper appearance.

“Forgive me, ma’am. The name’s Jesse McCree, at your service.”

“Is ‘deputy’ no longer included?”

The glance she gives to his shirt, just underneath his serape, reveals a glint of silver on his breast pocket. A ring of worn gray metal surrounding a star, labeled with his title. It’s nothing impressive to the folks around here, just a reminder of his job.

“That too,” he gives. He tries another taste of mezcal and then asks, “I’ve yet to be introduced to you, ma’am.”

Now she’s the one to smile, like a tangle of ivy concealing sweet berries. When she turns, and the burning light of the chandelier hits her face, McCree finds a small mole beside her eye. Beauty marks, so they’re called. Plenty of showgirls dot those around their mouth, but that’s paint. Hers is real, like a nugget of onyx dug up from deep in the earth. He’s the lucky fool who somehow worked his hands into a bloody mess just to lift it into the sunlight.

“Sombra.”

He nods, but doesn’t allow the brim of his hat to conceal him. It’s something, but not really her.

“How do you do, Sombra?”

“ _Muy bien._ ”

She lifts her glass, swirling the liquid in a silent toast. McCree answers with a quiet clink of his own. As they throw back the last of mezcal, the world becomes small. The bar is empty save for the woman, himself, and the bartender to refill their glasses. The liquid is trickling into his veins. It warms his soul as she sips the glass. Lips as soft as lilac stain the rim of the cup. He’s jealous.

The mezcal is already causing him to droop over the bar. She isn’t phased in the slightest, like she never touched the stuff. Her hair falls like a curtain over her shoulder. Straight and focus, she swallows and breathes out quietly.

“I heard some call the sheriff around here ‘The Reaper’,” she says.

McCree bobs his head before stopping the motion with a glass pressed to his mouth.

“You would too if you got on his bad side.”

“Sheriff Reyes?” she questions. “Sounds like a rough man.”

Something tells McCree she already knows who she’s talking about.

“Only to those who get on the wrong end of his shotgun. He likes to bark, but that’s about it. He’s done a lot of service to the folks out here,” McCree drawls. Subconsciously, he’s aware that the words are slurred together like the blurry edges of his vision.

He lowers his glass, and leaves it empty on the bar. The bartender moves with the white bottle of mezcal, but McCree waves him off. It’s not right to get stupid drunk in front of a lady, even one who holds herself better than him. His thumb slips under the edge of his serape and rubs along his deputy badge. Silently, the bartender slips into the back to finish that last of the chores for the night.

Sombra watches his hand. Her eyes flicker back to his empty glass before finishing her own. The bar is empty of other souls, save for the two. A quietness associated with the witching hour comes upon him. Grunting, McCree gets off his stool.

She stays sitting, but turns and crosses her legs. Facing him, a whiff of foxglove moves with her hair.

“Do you mind if I offer some friendly advice?”

Her smile could cut leather and rope in seconds. A slight arch in her brow humors him.

“Not at all, _vaquero_.” The last word drips off her tongue, threatening to send McCree into a dizzy dance. He touches the brim of his hat. It can’t hide all the ruddy in his cheeks.

“There’s not much law out here, but the sheriff and I dole it out in our own way. Folks work hard to make a living, keeping their families safe, and we don’t like to have that peace disturbed,” McCree says.

He lifts his chin, rubbing his beard for a moment. Hopefully that doesn’t off too strong, but he ain’t blind to what she is. There’s something strong that moves in her dark folds. Something quick and something smart. Beautiful, too. He’d hate to have to find her later with his gun.

The playfulness to her lips falls away. Her smile doesn’t disappear, but it changes without moving, like a cloud covering the moon. Cold, calculating.

“Do you understand?” he asks, not unkindly.

Sombra stands, shoving the stool back as she gets to her feet. She comes to a stop in front of him. The faint essence of alcohol and cigarette smoke lingers in the air. His finger twitches, wanting to take a drag on one. Poker cards and curses disappear with every passing second that creeps to midnight. She stands close, only to his chest because of her short stature.

“Loudly,” her voice clips. Internally, McCree curses himself.

He offers his arm, nonetheless.

“It’s dark out there. Will you give me the honor of walking you to wherever you need to be?” he asks, teetering between drunk, foolish, and hopeful.

Her purple coat flares around her thighs, twisting with her movement as she steps to his side. It’s a miracle. Foxglove presses to his senses, promising that this is real. Smooth fingers slip over his hand. She hooks onto his elbow, waiting expectantly. It’s a show, a dance to seduce, but McCree’s foggy brain lingers on her warmth.

“My horse is outside,” she jerks her head towards the doors.

He takes her, praying that he can walk straight. He does, for the most part. Out the swinging doors, he guides Sombra into the cricket filled night. A heavy blanket rests on the sky, silencing everything but his heartbeat in his ears, and their footsteps. They pass by McCree’s mare, who flickers its tail.

Sombra steps around the building, to another hitching rail that secures a black horse. A mustang by the looks of it. It lifts its head, black mane falling down its neck like a curtain. A strong animal, something to accompany the woman’s mystery.

Into the shadow between the two buildings they go. The moon can’t reach it’s silver hand here. Sombra walks with a swagger that draws McCree’s eyes to her hips before he promptly looks away.

“I reckon you don’t want to stay at the inn?” he drawls. As he settles his tongue, disappointment washes over him. The night is the only place she’ll move through. Souls like hers never stay long enough.

“No.”

She turns to him, freeing her hand. A glint, like a refraction of light off of a knife, stays in her stunning purple-blue eyes. The coolness of the night washes over him, chilling where her hand once rested on his arm.

“It’s been a wonderful evening, ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat to her. Although, his hands would much rather catch her own, and ask her one more question.

The mole on her skin moves with her as she looks to him. A beauty mark staining his own heart. Then, she parts her lips, like a fox who just got into the hen house.

“Pleasure drinking with you, McCree… If that is your real name.”

McCree freezes, locking eyes with her audacious gaze. It’s no bluff. She knows. She knows what only the dark collects, and she keeps it holstered. What is whispered becomes knives lining her hands.

He straightens his shoulders, jolted through his drunken stupor. His thumb hooks onto his belt. Being tried never worked with any cattle rustler or thief, and she will find the same if she dares. Whatever she wants, either from this town or himself, she won’t get by hanging this over his head.

Pride is an aspect of his heart, but he will rip it out if it means avoiding manipulation.

“Don’t know what you heard, but it’s not Joel; best remember that,” McCree voice lowers, nearly growing with his suggestion.

A curse. A name that he left behind in the dirt. A boy who was ignorant.

Sombra doesn’t even blink. In fact, she steps closer, uncaring of his tense hands. The threat has been laid, now she waits for him to step forward.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, narrowing his brow.

“Knowing things is kind of my trade, McCree,” she pulls through her teeth. “Knowing the right things leads to power. Even out here, there’s a lot of powerful things to learn about.”

“What are you getting at?” he almost snarls.

Games isn’t what he plays, but he should have known he tossed in his chips when he moved towards her beck and call. He’s a fool, falling for eyes of purple-blue. Now, she’s getting to steal and rob something, or someone. Whatever she’s after, it has to be priceless.

“To find out things like that, you have to go to dark places.” Sombra sighs at his agitation. It’s not so much fun anymore. What a pity. “If you’re going to be in the dark, you have to blend in.”

“Like a shadow,” McCree finishes.

He knows what the name she gave him means.

She lifts her head, affirming.

“Relax, I have nothing to gain from you, but a girl never knows when something like that might come in handy.”

He shakes his head, not grasping her light tone. Why the game then? If he’s not an important player to her, why bother?

“Why’d you go digging through my past then, Sombra?” he questions.

How did she know? He forsook everything that connected him those days. It should have fallen far behind him, withered up in the sun and turn to dust. Here, this woman is dumping it all at his feet, as if it doesn’t weigh half a ton.

“There are strings being pulled, McCree.” He hates how he loves the way she sounds out his name. “Many of which overlap with this town. When I get to the bottom of it, I’ll be the one to pull them, but until then, consider this friendly advice.”

McCree studies the fall of her playful glamor. It hits the red dirt, gray in the night. Her eyes are dangerous, focused on what lies underneath the brim of his hat. This is honest, if nothing else.

“Everything can be manipulated, and everyone.”

Cryptic, as always. This woman will drive him mad with the thoughts she swirls into his brain. He steps back, riled up and unable to keep looking at her. He has no right to feel so but betrayal burns up his blood.

“McCree.”

“Don’t,” he warns.

“Hey.”

Sombra’s hand reaches out, and touches his face. Her fingertips brush the corner of his jaw for only a moment. He snatches her wrist, slim and warm in his grasp. Between the two, shadows and tension waver. Her eyes refuse to let him go. He stares back, refusing to collapse under what she knows.

What does a woman like her know? What does she want?

She leans closer. There’s no heat but the one that sparks inside his chest as her lilac lips draw nearer.

“I did have a good time. You’re handsome company.”

Heaven help him. Her thoughts mirror his own, like a snake slithering before a charmer. The accent rolling through her vowels slip inside his ribs. Each note plays a sweeter sound, echoing until he craves nothing more than to hear her speak again.

She knows a name he doesn’t own anymore, but why warn him of something bigger? Is she really that intrigued by him? Will he give into the desire burning a hole through his chest every time he looks at her?

His hand slides down her arm. Falling on her side, he takes her hip. She moves into it, hungry.

He’s a fool. And too drunk for this.

“Are you going to steal my soul tonight?” he mutters. The devil might be this woman, bent on tormenting him without brimstone and fire. “You come here to take something worthless?”

“McCree,” she chuckles, “You’re comparing me to a she-demon?”

He grips her hip tighter, drawing her close. A metal edge of a weapon touches his fingertips. A gun. She knows, but that doesn’t stop her from bringing her lips close enough to electrify his own. On her tiptoes, she searches in the shadows.

“There are worse devils,” her voice becomes another secret passed in the dark, “but the true one doesn’t need to carry a gun.”

McCree knows. He’s seen a dark man in an empty field, once or twice traveling a bare dirt road. It’s always from afar, but if he dared to chase the man down on horseback, he’d reach him. The black cloak and hooded man would turn, almost human, and offer his talons for a handshake.

This woman is better, and worse, in all the right ways. The rise and fall of her chest is pressed against his own. Heat hotter than the soul makes him come alive. It dances between their bodies.

“Do you really want to do this?” he asks.

He shouldn’t, but he’s aching for her. If she kneads and flattens his heart for one more moment, he will die right where he stands.

Her answer is a kiss. Her lilac mouth touches his, and pulls on his bottom lip. He tastes sugar, foxglove, and something slippery. A poison that makes him fall into her hands that reach up and touch his chest.

“Take me somewhere we can be alone, _vaquero_ ,” she commands, breathing into his ear.

The way she says the word turns his will to snow, and his bones to sand. Her vaquero. She means that, with the coy endearment. He obeys, without thought. His heart yearns for that touch of a lover, and here she is, asking him to give himself up.

Someone he wants to be his.

He whispers to get on her horse, and follow him. She does, and together, the two shadows in the moonlight race. Hoof beats echo like a mad heart. A pinto pony and black mustang burn with their owners. Out of town, he takes her to a small, humble house. It’s enough to call it his own. The bed will certainly do.

They stop their horses, but McCree is quick, and in need. He takes her waist and lifts her off the saddle before she can move. She likes it. It echoes in her short burst of laughter, frisky. Her arms wrap around his shoulders as she straddles his waist.

Clutching her thighs like a lifeline, McCree staggers with mezcal but gets her to the door. His hands won’t let her slip through them tonight. He presses her against the wood of the building, tasting her chin, her purple lips, her beauty mark. She’s searching, clawing through the dirt of his clothes to dig up skin.

He’s burning. Cool fingertips run along his beard, promising salvation. He’s certain that only she can save his soul in this kind of darkness. Her name, like a prayer, keeps playing in his voice. There’s no angel that can compare to her kisses.

He finds the knob as she nips at his bottom lip. He turns it, and carries the beautiful woman inside.

*

McCree’s eyes open. His small, two room house is dim with a morning twilight. The sun doesn’t even peek over the red horizon. His insides drip like honey, sweet and warm, malleable. A smile sweeps over his mouth before he realizes lightning still buzzes over every inch of his skin. A tuneless hums lingers in his throat. If he had a singing voice to speak of, he would sing hallelujah.

She didn’t call him Joel again.

Dawn is what usually rustles him out of bed, but something else caused him to wake. An emptiness resides in his arms. McCree frowns before turning underneath the sheets. His fingers rake through the space beside him.

It’s warm, but empty.

He bolts upright, like a jack rabbit spotting a coyote. There’s no beautiful dark hair in sight, or sign that he wasn’t alone last night for the first time in a long time. As if she were a dream.

McCree curses as he stumbles out of bed. He throws on his jeans as he rips open the top drawer in his dresser. The dark blue, pre-dawn light does little to offer assistance, but he still spies a small wad of cash hiding among his undergarments. His meager savings, when he can think to put some aside.

Crinkling his brow, McCree scours the floor, where his discarded shirt still sports his deputy badge. Beside the door, on a hook, his peacekeeper hangs, where it always does when he comes back into this house. Not even a silver spoon is missing.

His soul sighs in relief that he didn’t allow a thief to seduce him, but his chest slowly becomes heavier. A mountain creeps over his sternum. The longer he stands in silence and isolation, the more it towers over his heart.

_Where is she?_

McCree scratches his beard. There’s no crickets. The world is silent. A cool, crisp breeze from the open window touches his skin. Muddled in his own mind, McCree crosses the room to shut the window.

His fingers brush cold glass before an impression on the desert horizon catches his sharp eye. A black shape with a background of fading blue. A woman, on her black mustang. Around her, the stars retreat, and the red dirt brightens. She stays there, unmoving. She’s looking back to the house they made love in.

That foolish heart of his beats slowly at the sight. It longs to jump out and chase down the one person it felt close enough to call his.

What was he thinking? That he was hers, too? _You fool._ She’s no one’s, not even the sun’s.

Thick hair flips off of one shoulder. Sombra shifts on the saddle of her horse. There, she stays for a moment longer, looking back into his foolish eyes. He wishes he could see her face, just to know what shines in those purple-blues of hers. Is she lingering because she feels that same heat in her heart? Or, does she want to watch him miss her?

Oh, she’s neither angel nor demon. Still, she would have impressed the devil himself with their arrangement. McCree paid a sweet, sweet and bitter price to know her.

She turns her cheek and tugs the reins on her mustang, following midnight back across the land. Away from the rising dawn, she rides.

McCree watches, silent in the window frame of the ending scene. A curse, and then a whisper of her name falls out of his lips. The only name he’ll ever know her by. He rubs his jaw, scratching his beard in a tired, defeated way.

He had her for a night, but that’s not enough for his hungry heart. A woman like her doesn’t take the chance of calling someone her own. Her slippery hands still stole from him, and drags it in the dirt behind her mustang.

He’ll be chasing after her for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Stop by my tumblr ribbons-halos.tumblr.com and say hi! ♥ I post headcanons, fics and updates on my tumblr first. It was requested that I post this fic to AO3, and so here it is.


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